Her head jerked to the side and then she looked back at him and rubbed her cheek. “I’m going to remember that.”
“Wait a sec,” said Nero, who, for the record, really was the dumbest person in the room. “Hang on – if you’re a pacifist, how come you beat the snot out of the babies?”
The woman looked up at the pledges standing in line. “I didn’t say I was a pacifist. I said I didn’t kill people. None of them are dead, are they?” She considered the four individuals currently trying not to bleed on the rug. “Not that it’d be the greatest of losses. I’m not sure there’s a cure for cancer likely to come out of this particular brain trust. Still …”
She indicated the shotgun resting on the table in front of her. “Bessie here shoots beanbag rounds. I got a few other tricks and toys.”
Beside the shotgun lay some kind of Taser, a combat whip, a knuckleduster, a small pair of wire-cutters, her motorcycle helmet, and what could best be described as a titanium combat baseball bat. It certainly wasn’t League-compliant, not with those retractable spikes.
“I got an ‘anything but’ policy. As long as it don’t kill you, it’s fair game.”
“Did she use kung fu and shit?” asked TT.
“Wow, dumb and a racist. You’re quite the package.”
TT stood up, but Mad Dog stepped in front of him and placed an arm across the big man’s chest. “Easy. Easy. You’ll get your chance. We just need to figure out what the hell this is first.”
“Has anyone got the right time?” asked the nun.
“What?” asked Mad Dog, once he’d pushed TT back towards the lounger he’d been sitting on.
“The time,” repeated the woman. She indicated the device on her wrist. “This stupid thing does all kinds of stuff, but I’ll be damned if I can get it to tell time.”
“It’s three minutes to four, Sister,” said Dimes, standing up and moving towards her.
Mad Dog didn’t like that, he was the one in charge. “So, tell me,” he continued. “That sweet hog outside yours?”
“Yeah, it is.”
They’d noticed it on the way in. It looked as if it had started off as a Harley with a sidecar, but the thing had been tricked out in a way Mad Dog had never seen before.
“Nice,” said Dimes. “After you’re gone, it’s going to be mine.”
“I’ll decide who gets the spoils,” asserted Mad Dog. He and Dimes locked eyes.
“A little trouble in paradise, fellas? Fair warning, though. First man that tries to ride off on old Laurietta – that’s her name – is in for a nasty surprise. She’s booby-trapped. You’ll get your balls blown clean off.”
Mad Dog looked down at her. “You can’t booby-trap a bike.”
“I can’t, no. But I know someone who can. Her name is Zoya.”
“She another of these crazy nuns?” said Dimes, laughing.
“That’s right. She’s wicked smart too. A genius, in fact. That’s a rare thing, which makes it all the more surprising that there’s another one of them in this room.”
Mad Dog and Dimes both glanced at the corner, where Arthur Faser sat, looking miserable. It was clear, for many reasons, that he wasn’t a member of the gang. He didn’t have any tattoos. He wasn’t wearing a cut – as in a vest with the gang’s logo and colours on it. Most obviously, he was bound to Nero by chains at the wrist and ankle.
You couldn’t be too careful – at least, not with Arthur Faser. The man might have looked like nothing – short and scrawny, weighing no more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He wore glasses and looked permanently terrified. Despite all of that, he was indeed a genius of a kind, and central to Mad Dog’s big plan.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mad Dog, trying to sound casual.
The nun sighed. “Really? We going to pretend that none of us is aware of Mr Faser back there, and his party trick? The man also known as the Eel? The man who has escaped prison a bunch of times? He’s the Houdini of the penitentiary service.”
“And what do you want with him?”
“Same thing you do. I require his assistance to get somebody out of jail.”
“Who says we’re doing that?” challenged Dimes.
It was exactly what they were doing. Richard Ridgemont had been Dimes’s cellmate for part of his stretch in Waverley. Old Dick was a rich guy who’d got life without parole for a double murder, and he wasn’t enjoying the incarcerated lifestyle. He seemed short on regret for taking out his ex-wife and her personal trainer, even though it came out in the trial that the trainer really was as gay as Christmas.
Ridgemont had let it be known that there was a cool ten million in it for anyone who could help him escape. It wasn’t something the gang had seriously considered until they’d been offered Faser’s whereabouts as payment for a past-due debt.
“I don’t care what you’re doing,” said the nun. “Not least because you’re no longer doing it. I’m here to make you an offer.”
Mad Dog looked around the room and smiled. He picked up the nun’s motorcycle helmet. It was a fancy-looking one – full face, with buttons on it. Must have a built-in radio or something.
“Is that right?” he said, turning the helmet around in his hands. “You’ve come here to make me an offer?”
“Sure. Be careful with that helmet by the way. Press the wrong button and …”
“Let me guess – it’s booby-trapped too?”
“What can I tell you? My girl Zoya has a peculiar kind of mind. It also has an in-built computer, night vision, and can hermetically seal itself.”
“Wow. That must come in handy, Sister.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“So,” said Mad Dog. “Fun as it is to hear about your crazy imaginary friends, what’s this offer?”
“Right. Let me and Mr Faser go.”
There was a pause.
“And?” asked Mad Dog.
“And nothing. That’s it. Come to think of it, it’s less of an offer and more
